


waiting on words

by museme87



Series: take a chance (start anew) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kid Fic, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Romance, domestic fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having barely escaped King's Landing and the Dragon Queen's wrath with their lives, Jaime and Brienne attempt to navigate their life together on Tarth and care for their newly born babe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waiting on words

**Author's Note:**

> This series of one-shots was born from two things: 1) my love of kid fic, and 2) my desire to have a lighter series to write when other one-shots and multi-chaps get too angsty or heavy. I am kicking around ideas for other one-shots in this series, and not all of them will focus so much on children. It just so happens this one does.

The babe in his arms is a scrawny thing, lost amidst the layers of swaddling furs. Taking care to keep him warm, Jaime tucks the furs tightly against his little body and holds him close to his chest. He does not remember Cersei's children ever being so small—what little he saw of them, at least—yet those were the children of summer and kings. This little one is not so fortunate. 

The maester cautioned against becoming too attached so early. What with his size, the babe may have been born a moon too soon, the master had said, and the bitter cold had been known to take children bigger and stronger than him. Jaime had tried to be sensible about it, to heed the words of a man with far more experience in these matters than he, but Brienne had heard none of it. She had fallen in love the moment they pulled him from her and placed him in her arms, slick with birthing fluids and fussing. And one look from her—pale, sweaty, with tears in her eyes and the babe against her breast— had stirred his heart for this child in completely unfamiliar ways.

Jaime runs a calloused finger along the babe's brow, causing the babe to shift and his own lips to pull into an easy smile. The boy has all his mother's coloring, though Jaime has spared his son Brienne's chin and has given him the Lannister nose. Only briefly do his thoughts drift to his father, wondering what Tywin would have said about the grandchild he had always wanted him to sire. At first Jaime thinks there would be some satisfaction there, but the idea quickly sours with the stark reality that his son is a Storm, not a Lannister. And even if Tywin would have forgiven him that, Jaime knows that Brienne would not live up to the standards that his father held for a woman who would wed the one-time heir of Casterly Rock. 

Placing a soft kiss on the babe's downy hair, Jaime breathes in his scent and feels the warmth of his skin. Even if his son would never have satisfied his father, the boy is enough for _him_. In truth, he has not been much of a father up until now, but there is still time for him yet, if the babe survives. And Jaime holds hope for him, this little lion. 

Over the past few days, Jaime had fallen into old habits—staying away from the babe, speaking of him with some disinterest—until Brienne reminded him that there's no need for any of that. And in those moments, he found himself drawn to his son like a moth to flame, drinking in the lines of his tiny face and memorizing each faint sound he makes. 

Stirring, the babe whines, his eyes half-open. Jaime softly shushes him, wishing they had decided on a name to call him by. Surely that would give him some comfort. Yet Jaime—fool that he is—had insisted they wait at least until the maester said the boy would live. If the fit that Brienne had thrown at that suggestion was any indication, Jaime is certain she's given the babe a name already and has just failed to tell him. And in truth, he's afraid to ask for fear of having to put a name to a dead child's face once again. 

Despite his best efforts, his son does not quiet for him. The babe's small whines turn to angry fussing, and Jaime's gentle rocking does little to soften the noise. He is not good at this, a fact that makes him feel entirely useless. While he doubts that few fathers feel any shame at having to hand a crying babe to a nurse or its mother, he has more times these past few days than he cares to count. And that shame and uselessness only amplify when he recalls when his own father—though the incidences had been rare— had been able to silence Cersei's children with a few soft-spoken words and gentle rock of the cradle. 

As he shifts the babe in his arms, Jaime hears Brienne's approach. Too many days and nights afield have taught him the sound of her walk, knowledge which he has used to his advantage far more than once. He glances up the moment the footsteps stop, the babe not yet content with his rocking to have quieted completely. 

Brienne stands just at the door, her concern shifting to surprise at the sight of him. She pulls her robe more tightly around her, particularly at the chest, and Jaime shakes his head lightly. After all they've been through, her insistence at modesty puzzles him in the most amusing way. 

"Jaime? You're supposed to be on your way to Bronzegate." 

"And you're supposed to be resting in bed," he counters. "Yet here you are." 

She frowns at his mention of rest, and Jaime prepares himself for what has become a familiar battle. He does not mean to sound like some shriveled old septa berating her, but the fact remains that the maester had stressed that the labor had been hard on both her and the babe. She would need to ease herself back into her daily routine if she had any hope of recovering without setbacks. 

"If you refrained from having the nurse take the babe from my rooms every time I close my eyes for more than a moment, I wouldn't have need to be up." 

"Maester—" 

"I know, Jaime," she says sighing, her blue eyes pleading with him. "I _know_. But I feel fine." 

"You're healing. Or need I remind you—" 

"You needn't. I was there, after all." 

She was, yes. And Jaime by no means intends to insult her. The fact remains, though, that she hadn't witnessed it from his perspective—the paleness of her skin, the bloodied cloths, the look of concern on the maester's face as he examined her hour after hour with little progress. Despite the midwife's assurances that the first one is always difficult and that Brienne's hips were well suited to the task, Jaime had thought more than once that the Stranger might take them both. 

He sees the stubbornness set in her jaw, the challenging look in her eyes, and feels the fight leave him. Arguing with her will do neither of them any good, and Jaime would much rather leave her on good terms than let such an argument fester for a week until his return. 

"Alright," he concedes. "But when our son loses his mother because she's too pig-headed to look after herself, I won't be blamed for it."

"Of course, I'll have the maester write something to absolve you from any responsibility, if it will put you at ease." 

Her smile is playful as she approaches him, and Jaime frowns. She has spent entirely too much time with him, he realizes, as she bests even his quick wit on the occasion. He makes room for her, sliding over on the bench and placing a cushion in the abandoned spot with his free hand. Brienne rolls her eyes, yet—Jaime notices—she eases herself on the cushion all the same. 

"If you weren't holding the babe, I'd strike you with this cushion." 

"I've no doubt you would, my lady."

"I do not need to be coddled." 

"No, of course not." 

As she scowls, Jaime bites back a grin. Nothing raises her hackles quite like him placating her. And not for the first time does Jaime think that that's how they came about their son in the first place. 

In truth, neither he nor Brienne had quite figured out when the babe had been conceived. Jaime is certain that it had happened along the Kingsroad during their journey south from the Wall to King's Landing. And that it had happened in some flea-ridden room or on some furs in a tent Jaime has no doubt. He knows it ill done, thinks that this son deserved to be conceived and birthed in the warmth and grandeur of the Rock. That Brienne deserved more is without question.

Leaning against him, Brienne reaches out to their son's cheek and strokes it softly. Her hands are large and scarred, but Jaime thinks that there is something feminine about them when she touches the babe with such tenderness. 

"How is he?" she asks, a nervous tremor in her voice. 

"Well. He's kept warm and tended to closely." 

Brienne nods, swallows hard. "I worry." 

"As do I." 

"If anything should happen to him, my heart will break." 

Jaime believes it, the weakness in her voice telling it true. How Brienne could ever have thought herself incapable of loving the babe he will never understand. She had fretted for months before his birth that she would fail at this as she had failed at so many other womanly things. Jaime knew otherwise, of course, having seen her worry and care for Podrick. While he may doubt her ability to stitch or dance, there was little doubt that Brienne would make a fine mother. 

His own feelings on the matter of his impending fatherhood, however, had differed strikingly. He had spent moons worried that he would fail to feel for this child as he had his others. Yet, looking down at his son, Jaime feels a pang in his chest at the thought of this babe cold and still. For reasons he does not question or care to linger on, Jaime knows he could not so easily get over the loss of this son. 

"Nothing will happen, Brienne. I promise." 

"There is only so much we can protect him from, and you should not make promises like that besides." 

Jaime does not care for the turn in their conversation. While Brienne so rarely gives voice to her growing concerns, he is not sure he can discuss this with her now. It is selfish of him, especially when she needs him, but Jaime is no stranger to putting his needs before others'.

He leans into her, his lips brushing softly against her cheek before reaching her ear. 

"When have I ever let you down, wench?" 

As he pulls back from her just so, he still sees the lingering fear in her eyes along with sudden disappointment. _I've let you down now_ , he thinks, _and not for the first time nor the last_. And he must express the guilt that he feels because something shifts in Brienne, and Jaime knows that she must understand he is incapable of talking about worst case scenarios. 

"The first time on our most recent journey?" she says, forcing easiness into her voice for his benefit. "Near Fairmarket, if I'm not mistaken. And the second at the ruins of Oldstones. That I do remember distinctly. Should I continue, my lord?" 

"Those were all mere oversights. I've always pulled through when it mattered. Or need I remind _you_ —"

"I know, Jaime." 

For all that Brienne may still act the blushing maid when it comes to her modesty, she has grown much bolder in her affection. Jaime feels her lips against his, her mouth less clumsy against his than it had been in the north. He's missed this, the touch of her. He stirs as she opens her mouth for him, and Jaime realizes it has been far too long since he's bedded her. Brienne pulls away, her breath heavy and breasts heaving, as she rests her forehead against his own.

He nudges her nose with his own, his hand reaching to touch her ruined cheek. He hopes she knows how sorry he is that he's failing her and their son both. As long as he has been with Brienne, he has been apologizing for something or another, though rarely with words. More often than not he has conveyed it in her bed—with every kiss, with every slow thrust, with every night he stayed instead of leaving as he should have to spare her reputation. And in time he found it necessary to apologize to the babe too. He would not be the kind of father who could not tell his own son how wrong he had been—he would not by _Tywin_ reborn—and so after Brienne had long since fell asleep, he would speak to his son inside her, never daring to touch the swell of her belly for fear of ruining them both. 

"Our boy is a lion of the Rock," he whispers. "He will roar proudly when the time comes." 

As if on cue, the babe begins to fuss, his crying still too weak to be considered honest cries. Jaime pulls back from Brienne and attempts to lull the boy back to sleep with a gentle rock. As he feels helplessness and frustration coming on, Brienne reaches for the babe, apparently sensing it. 

"I can do it," Jaime says, though his tone suggests otherwise. 

She looks at him, amused. "Jaime." 

"If I'm staying, I need to know how to care for him," he says, his voice rough with annoyance as Brienne apparently finds this whole thing comical. 

"Of course you're staying. And I do want you to feel you can see to his needs, but I'm afraid there's nothing you can do for him just now." 

Frowning, he looks down at his son only to find the babe's head turned to the side, moving against his furs with some purpose. It then occurs to Jaime what Brienne is talking about. 

"He needs fed." 

She nods. "Aye, he slept through his last feeding." 

His frustration and helplessness abating, Jaime does not feel like such a worthless father as he hands the babe to Brienne. She looks far more at ease with their son against her chest than he ever has. Somehow he finds it in himself to resist pointing that out, as they've had few instances of I-told-you-as-much that haven't ended in him bedding her. He will be glad when the maester gives permission for him to return to his lady's bed. 

"Do you mind?" she asks. 

"Mind?" 

"Do you want to watch me feed him?" 

Jaime can only manage a nod, which is enough for her. She tugs at her robe, freeing her breast and cradling the babe against it. Before now, he had only been around to witness Brienne feeding the babe on one other occasion—the first, just after she'd given birth. Maybe he had purposefully stayed away for fear of feeling the jealousy he experienced watching Cersei feed Joffrey. Yet, he does not feel that way now. 

The babe still struggles to latch on, which sets Jaime on edge. If his son cannot suckle, like as not he won't make it. Brienne, apparently familiar with the struggle, seems slightly more relaxed. 

"Is it always like this?" Jaime asks, concerned. 

"He's improved." 

That only serves to make Jaime frown as he casts his gaze elsewhere about the nursery. It's only when he feels Brienne's hand in his a few moments later that he dares look back. When he does, Jaime is relieved to find his son suckling.

He watches them both bonding through such an intimate act. The boy seems suddenly content, his eyes—the blue of newborn babes—moving to watch his mother and then blinking slowly. Jaime is certain he's soon to fall asleep. 

The babe has nearly done so when one of Brienne's maidservants enter, her heavy footsteps startling him. She curtseys before them. 

"M'lord, one of the captain's men came looking for you. They're ready to set sail by your leave." 

"Thank you. Tell the captain I'll be ready as soon as I've said goodbye to Lady Brienne." 

The servant curtseys quickly once again and leaves them to their privacy. 

A sense of dread settles into Jaime's stomach with the thought of his coming journey. And by the looks of it, Brienne cares even less for it. Her eyes are suddenly wet, but she blinks back any tears before she thinks he's noticed. 

_That's my wench_ , he thinks, fighting off a smile. 

"What?" she says as she notices his grin, indignant. 

"Nothing." 

He thinks she would have bought it, perhaps, had he not laughed as he said it. 

"It's the babe that makes me do _this_ ," she says, gesturing towards her eyes. "It has nothing to do with you." 

Touching her cheek, Jaime pulls her in for a kiss. His mouth is hot on hers, and it amazes him still how she opens her mouth for him so quickly now. He wishes he could give her a proper goodbye, one that will have her feeling the aches he's left on her until he returns. And if the way she dares to slip her tongue into his mouth is any indication, she must want it too. It's only when he feels wetness on her cheeks that he pulls back. Their eyes meet only briefly before she looks away. 

"I'll miss you too, wench." He pauses, briefly. "If you say the word, I'll postpone the trip." 

That grabs her attention, turning to face him again. "You can't. You know that." 

He hums thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose the Hand of the Queen wouldn't take too kindly to my telling him where he might fuck himself. Even if he is my little brother." 

As if the matter is settled, Jaime stands, taking one long look at both Brienne and his son. He will never tell her—she does not accept compliments well—but motherhood looks good on her, for all that armor does too. And as his gaze falls lower, Jaime tries to remember each curve of the babe's face in case the worst should happen.

Because lingering will only make it harder—he knows that he cannot avoid Tyrion at any cost, despite what he wants—Jaime nods briefly and moves to leave her. But something grips him before he is two steps from her, and he faces her once more. 

"He has a name, doesn't he?" 

"Yes, he does," she says, not looking the least bit guilty for choosing one without him. 

"Don't…" he pauses, swallowing hard, "I'm not ready. Just…by the love of the Seven, tell me it's not _Renly_." 

It's Brienne's turn to smile now. "No, it's not Renly." 

And it's enough for Jaime.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that's that. Hope you enjoyed! If you have a second, please let me know what you think! 
> 
> And as always, you can find me over on tumblr as museme87.


End file.
